I was present yesterday at a funeral service, performed in honour of
General Dillon. This kind of service is common in Catholic countries,
and consists in erecting a cenotaph, ornamented with numerous lights,
flowers, crosses, &c. The church is hung with black, and the mass is
performed the same as if the body were present. On account of General
Dillon's profession, the mass yesterday was a military one. It must
always, I imagine, sound strange to the ears of a Protestant, to hear
nothing but theatrical music on these occasions, and indeed I could never
reconcile myself to it; for if we allow any effect to music at all, the
train of thought which should inspire us with respect for the dead, and
reflections on mortality, is not likely to be produced by the strains in
which Dido bewails Eneas, or in which Armida assails the virtue of
Rinaldo.--I fear, that in general the air of an opera reminds the belle
of the Theatre where she heard it--and, by a natural transition, of the
beau who attended her, and the dress of herself and her neighbours. I
confess, this was nearly my own case yesterday, on hearing an air from
"Sargines;" and had not the funeral oration reminded me, I should have
forgotten the unfortunate event we were celebrating, and which, for some
days before, when undistracted by this pious ceremony, I had dwelt on
with pity and horror.*--

* At the first skirmish between the French and Austrians near Lisle,
a general panic seized the former, and they retreated in disorder to
Lisle, crying _"Sauve qui peut, & nous fomnes (sic) trahis."_--"Let
every one shift for himself--we are betrayed." The General, after
in vain endeavouring to rally them, was massacred at his return on
the great square.--My pen faulters, and refuses to describe the
barbarities committed on the lifeless hero. Let it suffice, perhaps
more than suffice, to say, that his mutilated remains were thrown on